


The Case of Unresolved Issues in 221B Baker Street

by Ace_Of_Spades_2014



Series: The Case of the Baker Street Boys [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Comforting!Sherlock, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bottom!John, depressed!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-05 05:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12183582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ace_Of_Spades_2014/pseuds/Ace_Of_Spades_2014
Summary: John's been acting strange since Sherlock has come back from the dead, and Sherlock's intent to figure out what he can do to have things back to the way things were.





	1. Chapter 1

John winced as he hobbled up the stairs, ignoring the way Sherlock stared at the back of his head with narrowed, gray-green eyes. It was a look of stoic observation with a large dose of judgment, and John was not in the mood to deal with it. The only thing he was in the mood for was a hot shower to wash away the grit and blood that came from chasing after a deranged detective who was hell bent on cornering a serial killer. 

He should have known that Sherlock wouldn’t keep his observations to himself and let John escape into the safety of a locked bathroom. “I don’t understand why you’re limping; you were barely grazed in the shoulder.”

“Keep your arsehole observations to yourself tonight, huh?” The harsh retort shocked the detective, so used to being called brilliant and wondering after a successful case. His eyes followed John’s angry form as he limped to the bathroom and the door slammed shut.

The case had been simple for Sherlock to deduct, observing within the minutes who the killer was. Unfortunately, since the solving the crime had been too easy, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to go after the serial murderer personally, leaving Scotland Yard out of the loop. With absolutely no care towards his own safety, Sherlock chased after the impulsive killer who had a fully loaded gun in his hand and prepared to shoot the second Sherlock was close enough to take aim. 

With some sense of care for his own life, but having a far greater sense of care concerning Sherlock’s well-being, John followed on his heels. He tried to call after his friend, but nothing could deter the great imbecile that was Sherlock Holmes.

By the time John had caught up to Sherlock, the man had the murderer backed into an alleyway, rallying off his deductions without seeming to worry about the gun pointed at the center of his chest. A second before the shot rang out, John was bull-rushing his flat mate, knocking him onto the hard cement while the bullet grazed his shoulder.

After that, everything seemed to rush by. Sherlock had gotten a hold of his pistol, shot the murderer’s hand, and Scotland Yard swarmed the area. The serial killer was arrested. Lestrade fussed over a bleeding John, but then, before he could be questioned, he was being dragged away. 

John groaned at the initial hit of hot water, bowing his head to let the water cleanse him. He let in the steam with a harrowing breath. 

Sherlock, as always had been correct in his observation that John was fine.At the very least, he was in better shape physically than the typical run ins they had with these type of criminals back when John made more of a habit to join his flatmate to a crime scene - more than two years ago. It really was just a graze. He wouldn’t even need stitches. Heck, after cleaning the area, he could probably get away without using a bandaid. Yet, he couldn’t shake the tremble that ran up his spine or keep the psychometric ache in his legs from causing his limp. 

It was ridiculous, John knew, to be reacting this way. Once upon a time the chase would have been exhilarating, and seeing a gun point at Sherlock would have led him to take out his own to shoot first. That was probably the reason Sherlock hadn’t been afraid of the killer, thinking that his partner would be in his right mind to shoot before the killer ever had the chance to pull the trigger. The moment he witnessed the scene, however all logical thought was gone. In less than a second, he could see Sherlock fall and bleed out on the dirty ground, and John would rather die than see that sight again.

He could hear Sherlock shuffle about in the living room, but John did his best to ignore outside distractions. 

For two years, that had been the image John had had to fall asleep to, haunted by the loss and his uselessness in saving the one person he needed most. Living with nothing but that last memory, John had been as dead on the inside as Sherlock was completely. 

When he had seen Sherlock again, alive and standing in front of him in that restaurant, had been like a haunting dream. That second of seeing him had made John question his sanity, thinking for awhile that he had gone too far off the deep end. It was the only explanation for Sherlock to be standing there, alive and reasonably well, because John had seen him die with his own eyes.

Yet there he was, his grayish, green eyes crinkling at the edges as if he had played a magnificent joke. If it was real, it was all too much. John’s knuckles formed a tight fist to be pulled back and strung out furiously at the taller man’s jaw. It was the blood on his hand that made John finally accept that his friend was alive.

Having accepted the miracle, John apologized for the punch a day later, and began to settle back into 221B Baker Street, waiting for everything to go back to normal. These last two months had been all at once wonderful...and horrible. More than anything John was happy to have his friend back after these two years of heartbreak, and he tried his best to act as if those years hadn’t ever occurred. But no matter how much John was overjoyed for Sherlock's return, it was not easy to forget what he had recently gone through.

Despite Sherlock being a floor below him, John still tossed and turned at night at the images of a dead friend. He woke up in a cold sweat, forgetting momentarily that Sherlock was back in his life. He’d be making tea in a morose state, not remembering that he could make two cups without one going to waste. At the clinic, without seeing Sherlock in front of him, it was hard to accept that it was all real and he would continue to sink into depression. The crime scenes were the worst. Most times John was frozen until he followed Sherlock back to the flat. 

He came out reluctantly when the water began to lose it’s heat, and took his place in his seat. It didn’t take long after settling into the cushions uncomfortably, John could feel Sherlock step behind him, staring intently as he was prone to do. Only this time, Sherlock was unsure, the nerves clear in the air. 

John could practically hear the deductions about his state. It was a superficial wound. All other pains that John displayed were psychometric, and therefore unimportant. For all his observations, and clever connections, he had never been able to understand the emotions behind motivation. Had never cared to try and understand. 

In a way, John supposed it was what made Sherlock brilliant and the best that there was in his field. Unlike the mundane people that lived out their days plainly, Sherlock didn’t allow sentiment to get in the way of logic and what was real. He didn’t allow himself to be swayed away from the truth. On the other hand, in time like this, it was extremely difficult to live with. 

John himself was an emotional being, ruled by senses and feelings more than anything else. No to say that he wasn’t a man of science - he was a doctored after all - but his motivations and willingness to do anything was founded on what was in his heart. The thought was ridiculously romantic, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t been accused of it before. Sherlock, certainly had accused him with a tone of disgust often enough. 

“Take out?” Sherlock wondered after a time. “Or maybe tea?” 

Which would have been welcomed any other day, Sherlock being mindful of such ordinary things, but John was too drained to deal with incompetencies in which his friend dealt with matters not rooted in rationality. 

“Actually,” John groaned, lifting himself from his chair, “I think I’ll just go to bed.” He felt Sherlock’s cold stare at his back as he limped up to his room, his fists clenched against the wall to keep his balance as well as keep his frustration in. 

He lay atop the blankets, his hands upon his chest that breathed unsteadily, staring miserably at the ceiling. It was silent for an ungodly amount of minutes, possibly close to an hour, maybe even more. John wasn’t exactly in a stable enough state to keep track. But then, in the fog of heavy silence, the sweet melodies of a violin drifted upstairs. 

It was a sound that John had missed sorely in the two years that Sherlock had been gone. Sometimes, in the depressing late evenings, alone to drown in his loss, John would imagine the soft notes that talented, long fingers would have played. They would haunt his nights, accompanying the images of Sherlock’s dead body.

A quiet tear leaked from his eyes. His vision blurred. 

The music, for all the hauntingly familiar pain that it brought about in moment of an already vulnerable state of mind, was drowsy, and John began to drift into an uneasy sleep, his eyelids too heavy to stay open. He tossed and turned with cheeks stained with tears, sweat beginning to bead out of his pores. The violin’s strings were beautiful still, even to his failing conscious state, but in its beauty, it was heart wrenching.

It reminded him of how the flat used to be, peaceful amidst the chaos and strain of living with Sherlock Holmes. He could remember the way his flatmate looked standing near the window that oversaw the bustle of London, majestic with his instrument in his delicate but strong hands. Those sad, sweet notes were of a time that John could never get back. Those times had died the moment the detective’s body had jumped from St. Bart’s, and not even the miracle of resurrection could bring them back.

Tears continued to fall, wracking the tired and aching body of the worn out soldier.

Already lost to the fog of unconsciousness, he wished Sherlock would stop playing. The sounds were too damaging to his wrecked heart, broken the second Sherlock had decided to defeat Moriarty on his own. 

So John tossed and turned, unable to get away from the painful music that mocked him mercilessly. 

Then the music did stop, pausing a moment in silence, followed shortly after by light footsteps. The loss of gentle notes settled John slightly, but not enough to entirely allow for him to get a restful night’s rest. Slowly, quietly, John’s door creaked open. Apparently not finding it pertinent to ask for permission, Sherlock stepped towards the bed. 

He looked down at John, his eyes soft as he took in his flatmate's state, brows furrowed at what he was able to deduce. Awkward, but having made his decision, Sherlock lowered himself to sit at the edge of the bed and caressed the sweaty locks of hair from John’s forehead. 

“No,” John mumbled, the touch, however gentle it might have been, roused him awake. The intimacy made the shorter man feel queasy, and he flinched away from the touch when he became aware enough to do so. Oddly enough, Sherlock had a brief expression of hurt flit across his boyish face before putting it behind his typical mask. But John saw it and he couldn’t stomach it. It was all too much. “I’m fine,” he muttered, still drowsy but harsh enough, “You can go.”

The dismissal caused Sherlock to frown. “You are in pain,” he stated plainly as if that were enough for him to be there. 

John kept himself from scoffing, but only barely. “Yes, well, just as your said; the pain is all in my head.” He turned further away from his friend, facing the opposite wall. 

He thought Sherlock would agree in his typical cocky manner, but he didn’t. Instead, “I suppose that doesn’t make it any less real.” His silence pressed into the air. Sherlock refused to leave despite the tension. Or maybe it was because of the tension that he stayed. After awhile his baritone voice broke the stillness. “I’m sorry John.”

John forced himself to reply, “Yea well, next time just don’t go running off after murderers on your own.”

There was a pause where John knew Sherlock wanted to say something along the lines of, “I wasn’t alone. You were with me.” He must have caught himself in time, though, to say instead, “I mean, I’m sorry about being dead these past two years.”

John shook his head as best as he could against the pillow, tears gathering again in his eyes against his will. He made sure that those tears weren’t evident in his voice though Sherlock probably could tell. “You don’t have to apologize. I understand why you did it.” And he did understand. He truly did. Just as he understood that Sherlock had been through hell while he had been gone, and therefore had no reason to complain about what he had gone through during those years.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock stuttered unsurely, “I guess that doesn’t erase the last two years. I...I,” he struggled to find the phrase. “It has come to my understanding that my being back doesn’t mean we can just go back to the way things were. That we,...that we have to rebuild what we had.”

It was amazing to hear such a realization from Sherlock, expressing more emotion than he had ever allowed before. In the brightness of say, John might have been able to appreciate more fully Sherlock’s admission, but in the vulnerable, depressing night, John couldn’t handle it. “I’ll be fine Sherlock. Please let me sleep.”

There was hesitancy, but Sherlock finally moved from the bed and slowly led himself out of the room. The door, however, did not close, even as the footsteps descended. 

Which left John again to his own misery, though now not only left with horrible images, saddening remembrances, and a deep ache that seeped into his psychology. Along with thinking about the painful complexity of Sherlock himself. It was something that Sherlock had been able to come to such a conclusion on his own, to understand what John was going through. In all probability it meant he was progressing. Maturing. It was one thing to come to that conclusion, though, and quite another to act upon it. 

As much as John would wish it, John knew awkwardly confessed words would do little for their current situation. It would do even less for John’s mental state.

John blamed himself to be so effected by an occurrence that should have been a common thing for them - chasing criminals. There was no place for Sherlock to come to a complete understanding as to why exactly John was messed up even now. He wanted to force himself to pretend once more, get rid of his psychometric limp, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t in his capability to do so.


	2. Chapter 2

John was reading in his usual seat the next evening after work, massaging his muscles every now and then, with Sherlock pacing agitatedly from boredom. The tension between was palpable. They hadn’t spoken one another the entire day, which was on John because he was typically the person who broke the silence of the flat by asking what the detective had done that day or convincing the man to eat. That day, however, John had been too drained to do anything but retire in his chair and pick up a book, acting as if the other man hadn’t been lazing about all day in his robes.

Sherlock apparently had had enough with John’s stubbornness, for before John knew what the other was up, he was kneeling in front of the doctor. Without saying a word, Sherlock took John’s leg and began to massage it himself, kneeling the muscle expertly. 

“What are you doing?” John asked cautiously, though he didn’t have it in him to take the leg away. Lowering his book, he stared curiously and suspiciously at his flatmate. 

“Your muscles are sore. I’m helping you relax them.”

He was about to protest, just a little more than unsettled by the unpredictability, but couldn’t when strong fingers kneaded his calves with the expertise that the man did most things. Rather than speaking, John was too busy biting back a pleasurable moan. 

Why was Sherlock doing this? What had crossed his brilliant mind to lead him to the conclusion that this was what needed to be done? 

Sherlock, of course, could read the questions on his face as he glanced up to observe his blogger’s expression, his hands slowly moving up the leg, taking the time to care for each expanse of lean muscle. “I meant what I said the other say. I am truly sorry for the consequences that my actions had on you.” His vibrating voice was as soothing as his ministrations. “I had been obsessed with taking down Moriarty then and there, of protecting you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. It had not occurred to me that my prolonged absence would have this effect.”

John frowned. “You must have been moderately aware that your absence would have an impact on me.” He had certainly behaved as if John’s life would have just paused without Sherlock - never mind that that was what had happened. 

“I thought you would stay here, going about your life as you would have without the addition of dealing with criminals. I thought you would be here for me to return to, waiting for things to go back to normal.” As he spoke, it was clear that he had realized his error in deductions and was ashamed of his miscalculation. 

In this moment of openness and intimacy, John admitted, “I was waiting for you.”

Gray-blue eyes were soft, more vulnerable than John had ever witnessed. It was a mesmerizing sight. “But I was dead, with no hope of coming back.” He seemed to have come to this understanding just that instance, which was creating a dark churl in John’s stomach. How was Sherlock just realizing this now? “Which makes the waiting a bit more…”

John couldn’t hear the word. Couldn’t have the situation spoken to life to that extent. “But you did return. So everything is good.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, eyes locked on him fingers still gliding up his leg. “Everything is not good. And it’s my fault.” He seemed to move even closer. “So let me fix this.”

John swallowed at the intensity of sincerity. “You don’t have to fix anything.” He tried to reassure. “I just...I just need time to adjust.” By that time kneading fingers were on the inside of John’s thighs. “Sherlock.”

The man leaned into him, pressing himself between John’s legs. “John,” he practically whispered, the sound causing goosebumps to appear on the doctor’s skin. “Let me do this for you.” And he moved in completely, his soft, perfect lips touching John’s. 

The second velvet lips were on his, John lost all rational thought...or at least the little bit of rationality that he had left. A part of him knew this was a bad idea, that he would end up being the fool and getting hurt, but he couldn’t help but melt into the intimate pressure.

Sherlock obviously observed this, and took advantage of the now pliant body that he had beneath his fingertips. Gracefully, breathtakingly elegant, he lifted himself from his knees to place himself upon John’s lap, keeping the majority of his weight on the chair at the other’s man side.

Against his will, John found himself bringing up his hands to rest upon Sherlock’s waist. The feeling of Sherlock pressed against him was...John couldn’t describe it. Something good. Something a bit not good.

Whatever it was, it was too much. John became lost in sensations, a mess of nerves and rushing blood. No coherent thought available, except the weak warning that this was wrong. 

The detective was surprising god at this. Or maybe not so surprising. He did after all have a perchance of knowing and excelling at the strangest things. He was passionate in the way he pushed into John, grinding against him with just enough force to make John needing to tighten his lips to hold in erotic whimpers. Calloused fingers left barely there caresses upon John’s cheek and neck, and his tongue gently pried past chapped lips for access.

As the intimacy between them heated, John couldn’t keep himself from trying to chase Sherlock anytime he gyrated away. He needed that friction now that Sherlock had decided to gift him with, and he was going crazy from the teasing touches that he was afraid to take more seriously. 

Minutes later, Sherlock pulled his lips away, grinning ever so slightly, only to attach them John’s neck, sucking into the skin with the occasional love bite that had the man beneath him writhing. It was a little after that (or possibly a long time after that - John couldn’t keep track of time at the moment), when those talented hands went down, tickling his sides pleasurably. Each second those fingers traveled further and further down.

At first John took gratification from the intimacy, but then suddenly it became too much. The kissing, the touching, the grinding. John brought his palms to Sherlock’s chest to gently push him away. 

When he had the ability to open his eyes it was to see a hurt and unsure Sherlock peering down at him, still sitting on his lap. “Did I do something wrong?” 

“Um, no. It’s just, I'm, I wh…”

“We are going too fast,” Sherlock finished, gracefully removing himself from his lap. There was something in the air that made John think he should explain himself, give further explanation for stopping their...fun. But Sherlock didn’t find further explanations necessary. His expression became once again that stoic mask that he was so fond of wearing. “I understand. Of course you need time. You’ll need to process this information. We can try again tomorrow.”

As soon as he was finished speaking, he pivoted and headed into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. John stared at the empty space that Sherlock had just left. It was only after the detective was out of sight, giving John the opportunity to gather his thoughts properly, that he was able top come back into himself. 

What had just happened? What had Sherlock just done? What had John just allow to happen?

The ex-soldier found out hard to breathe. Obviously it was still trapped by the lips of a certain detective. What had Sherlock said in the beginning? That this was to “fix” things? To fix John? Did Sherlock think him broken?

John dropped his head into his hands. Of course Sherlock thought he was broken. He could deduce those type of things. It wasn’t even a new development. John had been broken for years, even before meeting Sherlock. 

It was the type of brokenness that had made him unable to return to civilian life after returning from the war. The broken shell of a man that couldn’t get rid of flashbacks and the empty pit of his chest. A brokenness that had him experiencing insomnia and limping from a non-existent injury. 

The only thing that had helped him get over it, to patch up the broken cracks of himself, was meeting Sherlock. Sherlock , who had taken one look at him and had known it all. Who had baited him into a wild chase and miraculously cured him. 

Those first years spent with Sherlock had been amazing, turning a broken soldier into a doctor made whole.

From an onlooker point of view, John was practically a lap dog, following after the genius, waiting to be told what was needed of him. It must have made him look like a pansy the way he endured Sherlock’s insults, dropped everything the man, and tolerated his tantrums. They certainly thought he was head over heels for the man, mocking their relationship. 

The truth was much more meaningful than that. With Sherlock, John had a purpose. He had someone to take care of and to protect. He may not have been the hero of the story, but he was damn glad to be the trusted sidekick. Because with that sense of purpose, all those things that had broken him apart had suddenly mended. 

The problem was, how was he supposed to be fixed this time? Because as much as Sherlock wanted to help, he couldn’t possibly fix John when it came to this. For while he had done a miracle when first meeting John, that miracle had come because John had felt need. Now, though, there wasn’t a thing in the world to convince John he still served a purpose. 

That had been clear enough when Sherlock had appeared of nowhere with a cocky grin on his boyish face. Their previous relationship came to equal nothing upon the realization that Sherlock had never truly needed John, because Sherlock had never trusted John. If he had trusted him, he would have informed him of his genius plan to thwart Moriarty.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes John was reminded that he was overqualified for his job as a clinic doctor. He had been a surgeon once - a damn good one - and should have been working in an actual hospital where he could actually be saving lives. The problem was, not many hospitals wanted to hire ex-army doctors who had PTSD and shaky hands. Never mind that his hands were perfectly steady when he needed them to be.

Years ago, the monotony of the clinic work hadn’t bothered as much as it was bothering him now. As a broken soldier, it was the only job he could get, and during that time in which he had barely gotten back, he had been wracked by too many other things to worry about the boredom. Then, when it came to a time that he wasn’t broken, he was saving lives by other means. With Sherlock Holmes. 

Now that that part of his life had been at a stand still for two years, it was practically unbearable. Now the work wasn’t only tedious, but it was without the purpose he had once used to balance it out with. Even with the famous detective back, if the previous crime scene had been any indication, John was no longer of any use when it came to catching criminals. 

In fact, had John ever been useful in that regards? Had Sherlock actually needed him, or could the madman have continued to do what he loved without any assistance from him? After all, John thought bitterly, when Sherlock had truly needed to be saved, John hadn’t been able to do a damn thing. 

He hadn’t been able to stop Moriarty from strapping the bomb on him, putting Sherlock in danger without any way of protecting him. He hadn’t been able to stop Irene Adler from drugging Sherlock and beating him with a riding crop. He hadn’t been able to stop the country from believing Moriarty's lies. And he sure as hell hadn’t been able to stop Sherlock from taking the fall. 

John wasn’t sure when it had happened, when he had decided to talk the trolley here, but he ended up at the pub after work. With little conscious thought, he sat at the end of the counter and ordered a pint. 

Thirty minutes after John had gotten off of work, twenty minutes after the time he should have arrived at the flat, he receive a text. Where are you? -SH

Peering at the text, John pondered about whether or not he should answer. When another pint appeared in front of him, it decided that for him. He set the phone aside and drowned his brokenness away.

It’s far past the time you should be home. -SH Another text lit on his phone, but John ignored it entirely this time.

Answer your texts. -SH

Lestrade has a case. -SH

I need you. Hurry. -SH

What happened to you? - SH

There was a part of John, still himself after all that he had drank, that felt guilty about not responding. It was unlike him to ignore Sherlock like this, and he could just picture the man going out of his mind. Though he had a tendency of ignoring others, he didn’t take to kindly to be the one that was ignored. Another part of him, however, was entirely affected by the alcohol and didn’t care at all.

Two hours later, pleasantly numb without any of those painful thoughts that had weighed him down through the long hours of work, John pushed himself from the bar stool to stand. Uncoordinated, he fished through his pockets to find his wallet so he might pay, but was having more trouble than he should have had. He swayed on his feet, the room beginning to rock, threatening to put him on his backside, but strong arms had reached out to save him from further humiliation. 

“Here,” a rumbled baritone voice was close to his ear. Cash was placed harshly on the counter, disapproval clear. The firm grip on John’s elbow tightened. “Come on, we’re going home.”

John couldn’t find any words to either agree or disagree, and simply let Sherlock lead him out and be guided into the cab that waited outside. In his alcohol induced mind and body, John wasn’t in any state to to comprehend what he was doing or what exactly was going on around him. He was barely aware that the detective was keeping his hand on John the entire ride home, moving his hands to John’s elbow and the small of his back as they got out and headed upstairs. 

The smaller man was set carefully into his chair. As John slumped into his chair, Sherlock knelt before him so that they were at eye level. His expression was serious and stern, and if John hadn’t been drunk he would have seen the concern and care. 

“Why didn’t you come back to the flat after work? You always come straight here. Or, if you know you aren’t going to, you always inform me where you are going.” He stared at John as if to study him like a crime scene, but unlike a crime scene he seemed unable to come up with anything reasonable deductions. 

“You’re not my keeper,” John grumbled through his haze. 

Sherlock frowned, not used to gaining John’s anger quite this quickly. In fact, he wasn’t all that used to John being inhibited. “I didn’t say I was. I’m just saying you usually inform me what you are doing.” 

The pints were beginning to fade, leaving John still numb and out of his mind, as well as getting a massive migraine. “I don’t have to tell you anything,” he snapped before Sherlock could continue to list the conclusions he was coming to about John’s behavior. “You certainly don’t tell me everything.”

There was deep sadness that overcame Sherlock, wrapping around him like a shadowed blanket. If John had been well enough to see that, he would have felt guilty, but he couldn’t force himself out of his own darkness. 

He was so out of it that he couldn’t even hear the pain in the detective’s voice as he apologized for the third time in three days. “I’m sorry John. I just wanted to protect you.”

John, becoming drowsy by the waning alcohol, mumbled almost incoherently, “Don’t need pro’ection.” He closed his eyes, wanting to drift away.

“Of course not,” he could barely hear the detective murmur. Gentle fingers brushed dusty blonde hair speckled with gray from a sweaty forehead.


	4. Chapter 4

When John woke up with a raging headache, he attempted to push himself into an upright position, but the sudden movement made things worse and his stomach began to churn angrily. He got out of bed as quick as possible, but it wasn’t quick enough to get to the restroom downstairs. If anything, it just made his stomach want to rid itself of its contents even faster. Fortunately, there was a bucket near his bed that hadn’t been there before.

As he heaved into the bucket, he could make out the sounds of hurried footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and suddenly John could feel a soothing hand on him, rubbing up and down his back in calming motions. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Sherlock kept repeating, his voice softer than John could bear. His level of care was flattering, but it was hard to fully appreciate under these circumstances. 

It was odd, hearing him reassure like that. Sherlock didn’t do reassurances. They were meaningless - sentiment that did nothing of real value. He just did whatever he thought was best or whatever he wanted with little care to the consequences it had on the people around him, especially when it came to the emotional consequences. 

Slowly, he settled himself away from the bucket with the help of his flatmate. When it looked like John was done with puking out his guts, Sherlock helped him back into bed. “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”

Maybe John should just be grateful that Sherlock was finally being considerate, that he was finally paying attention to someone else’s emotional needs. Mostly, though, it set him on edge. Sherlock was behaving like this for a reason, and that reason had been spelled out quite clearly: John was a broken man, and therefore needed to be treated with kid gloves.

When Sherlock returned, it was with a bucket, a glass of water, and Advil. John accepted the glass and pill without a word, unable to protest for to thank him. Sherlock didn’t seem to care. He stood by the bed, staring at John with narrowed, studious eyes, seeming to try to decipher a complicated case. It was extremely awkward.

After a moment of tension, John groaned. “You don’t have to stay you know.” Sherlock looked uneasy, unsure whether that meant he should listen and leave, or if he should do as he wanted anyways and stay. It was clear that he wanted to argue his point on staying, but John couldn’t handle his presence looming over him. “You’ll get bored up here with nothing to do.”

He still had that look of wanting to argue, but in the end he just said, “Call me if you need anything.”

When his footsteps could be heard going down to their living room, leaving the door ajar, John collapsed back into pillows, closing his eyes against the pain throbbing through his head. 

He woke up hours later, the headache faded but but not entirely gone, his whole body some, and the strong sense that he hated himself. How could be be so stupid? Losing control like that? What had he been trying to do anyways? He knew he was a light weight, and he knew the consequences of drinking as much as he did. 

In self-deprecation, John stumbled down the stairs, limping heavily and leaning against the wall. Sherlock’s eyes were on him the moment the door was cracked open wider. John recognized the look immediately. Intense, calculating eyes took in all of John, observing, connecting the dots, and filing the information away. Usually, such a look amused John, or even aroused him, but not lately, and definitely not when directed at him. 

“I called Sarah early this morning to say that you were feeling ill, so don’t worry about work,” he successfully read the stress in his flatmate alongside all the other things going wrong in him. It wasn’t the deduction of John’s concern that was surprising. What was surprising was 1. He remembered Sarah’s name, and 2. He had bothered to call John’s work at all. “So you can take today and the weekend getting out of the ‘funk’ of yours.” There was a slight sneer at the use of the slang term, but it was overpowered by the detective’s overall concern.

For he wasn’t using the phrase as the insult as he would normally be using it as, but rather as a term to be used because of a lack of understanding as to what exactly John was going through. He saw the symptoms, had deduced the reasons, and had even come up with a way to fix him. What he couldn’t fathom was the reason why. Why was John affected in this way? Why wouldn’t he let Sherlock fix him like he had before? Why had he felt the desire to go to the pub when Sherlock was waiting at the flat with a cure? 

Instead of belittling John’s “irrational behavior” or mocking the way he was allowing “sentiment” to rule over him, Sherlock was asking, “Would you prefer tea or a shower?”

“What?”

A small, crooked smile appeared at the edges of the man’s mouth, bemused by a slower than normal partner. “What would make you feel better first: tea or shower?” When John took too long to answer, Sherlock decided for him. “Shower then,” he demanded, already moving to the bathroom to get the water heated. “You stink.” 

When he had moved himself into the bathroom, he had thought Sherlock would head out. He didn’t. He stood there, waiting, watching, just like he had when he had set John in bed in the morning. Wanting to steer him away, John mumbled, “Thanks for your help Sherlock.”

“Of course.” Came the simple reply without any notice of leaving. Apparently it was going to be one of those days.

“I think I can do the rest by myself.” John hated the way he sounded so unsure. 

“I’m sure you can as well, but that doesn’t mean I can’t provide assistance.”

John also hated the way he couldn’t immediately decline the offer, because having Sherlock helping him take a shower was an even worse idea than them kissing heatedly on the sofa. The problem was, John was suddenly re-imagining that kiss and how much pleasure had racked his body while his flatmate took control of the situation. Then he was thinking about how Sherlock would take control of the this situation, them being in the shower together, naked skin on skin, lost in the steam. John was already becoming flush before anything had the chance to start. What the hell had Sherlock done to him?

In his inability to say no, Sherlock had slowly stepped right behind him. Cautious of the way a startled ex-soldier might react, he took a hold of the edges of John’s shirt and tugged upwards.

Once upon a time, all Sherlock had to do was state in his exasperated, raspy voice that he needed something and John would do what he could to meet the man’s expectations. Obviously, not much had changed in that regard. It wasn’t even a verbal order and John was readily obeying, raising his arms so his shirt could be lifted over his head. 

After that, John had no hope. He was quickly divested of the rest of his clothes, and soon after that he could hear Sherlock remove his own. Then there was a warm, soft hand on the back of his shoulder, guiding him into the tub, immediately followed by the man himself. Careful but confident, the detective took charge in lathering John’s hair with shampoo and massaging his scalp.

Up til then, all John could acutely be aware of was the blood rushing and his heart pound too fiercely against his chest. With Sherlock’s hands in his hair, though, everything felt like he was coming down from a high. He moaned from the absolute, calming pleasure of it and his eyes closed. Unaware of his physical reactions, he leaned into the touch, backing into the firm body behind him. 

The massage continued, but it was now in addition to lips against his neck. Too lost in the moment, John couldn’t comprehend the breathy whispers that cooled the back of his neck. “You’re going to be okay John. I’m going to make sure of it...I’ll fix you. I promise. Just stay with me.”

Not really hearing the words, John moaned and kept seeking further touch, which Sherlock was glad to help with. He maneuvered John directly under the water, gently leading his head back to wash away the shampoo. When he was sure the shampoo was gone, he moved on to lathering the rest of John. Starting at his chest, he sensually drew circles into John’s skin with soapy hands, slowly making his way down. 

As he did, he kept his chin on John’s shoulder, often kissing the juncture sweetly, keeping an observant eye on John’s state of being. He was a little wary of being rejected again at the last moment like last time, but it was obvious that for now John was his to meld as he found best.

When he got low enough to cause an entirely different sort of pleasure, Sherlock had to pause in silent debate before deciding that John wasn’t quite ready for that, or in the right mind to consent. So he was technical in the way he continued to cleanse the man in front of him, and if Sherlock pressed forward to find friction for himself, he couldn’t be found completely at fault. 

It was a testament to how talented Sherlock was in his caresses and what his mere presence did to John, that John didn’t come back into awareness until he was engulfed by soft, warm blankets. He didn’t have to open his eyes for Sherlock to know when he became aware of his surroundings again. “Feeling better?”

With just the slightest indication that he was awake and aware was enough for Sherlock to loom over him to peer studiously into John’s expression. It was a bit intimidating to have the detective hover him, but the shower had lulled John into a sense of security that he couldn’t deny even if he wanted to. 

“Why did you feel the need to get drunk last night?” 

“It wasn’t my intention to get drunk.”

Sherlock nodded to agree with the statement, and changed his phrasing. “Why did you feel the need to go to the pub last night?”

Just barely beginning to wake up fully, John found he had just enough energy in him to sass, “Figured you could decide that much.”

“You drank after work because of what I said the previous night,” the detective stated knowingly, and John didn’t argue. There was no point in trying to hide from the brilliant observations. To deny the facts would simply encourage the man to dig deeper into his findings. 

John was so caught up in his depressing thoughts from the previous evening that he missed the sadden glaze that passed over Sherlock’s eyes. He even missed the defeated tone he used to state, “Obviously I was wrong about my previous actions being able to fix you.”

“Obviously,” John murmured, so low that most wouldn’t have been able to hear even from a close distance, but Sherlock did not. There was nothing that could fix John. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered when John began to close his eyes again. “I was so sure that this was what you wanted. No. I know I this is what you want. I’ve seen the way you look at me, and how your body reacts to me. I’ve reviewed the facts from before.” John closed his eyes tighter as he was forced to listen. “But I didn’t take into account your perpetuity towards denial. Well, I did, but I didn’t plan on this causing further damage than what there already was. And for that I apologize. Still, I do believe if you could just accept my attention, then…”

“Sherlock, stop.” John finally had to push himself into a mostly sitting position. The man was babbling, which only meant two things. One, he was showing off his genius, or two, he was nervous. Seeing as this conversation couldn't possibly be used as a way to impress John, that only left nervousness. 

At the sound of John’s voice, Sherlock did stop. His eyes were wide and vulnerable. 

Now that John had finally caught onto Sherlock's own emotional turmoil, he was forcing himself to focus on the man that had tried his best these past few days to put the broken pieces back together. “What are you going on about?”

Brows scrunched together. “I am talking about this situation that you've placed yourself in because of your insistence that you can’t accept my advances despite the fact that I know such physical intimacy will help in lowering your stress levels and also provide…”

“Sherlock,” John tired again, recognizing the signs of another round of babbling, but this time wasn’t able to keep the man from wanting to protest.

“I just can’t understand why the prospect of us continuing this would send you into the end of a battle.”

Was that hurt in the tenor of Sherlock's voice? Was this a genius pained by what he felt as rejection? 

The hurt that John could see in Sherlock stabbed John straight into his chest with the same brutality that the bullet had torn into his shoulder. Had John been the cause of this hurt? How long had John been too deep into self pity that he hadn’t noticed that his friend was hurting too? “It...it wasn’t the idea of you that led me to the pub.”

“No?” It was clear that Sherlock didn’t believe him.

“No,” was all that John could say. Because he couldn’t put into words how right Sherlock had been that evening when soft lips had rendered him useless. He couldn’t say out loud how John knew he was broken and knew he needed to be fixed, but also understood that there was nothing that could be done to actually fix him. Not even tre amazing Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock stared straight into him to see if he could decipher what John meant. When he found that there wasn’t a lie to be pried open, he made sure, “To be clear then, you are willing to test my theory?” The theory that Sherlock’s touch would miraculously cure John’s brokenness. 

It wasn’t. There wasn’t anything Sherlock could say or do that would convince John that he could be made whole this time around. 

Yet John definitely couldn’t handle Sherlock sounding rejected. Couldn’t allow Sherlock to think that there was no hope left in him, because it was bad enough that the detective didn't trust him, but it would kill John completely if he was left alone again entirely. 

So, determined to appease his detective, to hold onto him at least a little bit longer, John answered by closing the distance between them and landing a soft kiss on velvet lips.


	5. Chapter 5

Since that night all Sherlock would initiate were kisses. Granted, many of the kisses that were exchanged became heated when there was nothing more interesting to do in the evenings. But they never turned into more than that. Which, more than just teasingly frustrated, confused John. Based off the first interaction, John had thought Sherlock would be determined to go all the way. After all, that was how Sherlock worked: all or nothing. 

Yet, days went on. John went to work, came home to a flat that either had a deeply in thought Sherlock or a Sherlock who was in the middle of an experiment. There was a steady stream of cases that came in, some given answers on the spot while others were kicked out because they were boring. Lestrade called once in that time, but the crime must have less than a six because Sherlock hung up and continued on with whatever he was doing. 

It was like a reel from a movie that depicted their old life in which anyone peering into their daily routines would think everything was back to normal. Mrs. Hudson certainly thought so given her cute, naive comments about their “domestics”. And John did his best to keep up those appearances, to pretend to the best of his ability that things were in fact getting better and that Sherlock was indeed “fixing him”.

Then one evening, about a week later something finally became more. John was in his chair watching TV inattentively and Sherlock was perched on the sofa, fingers clasped under his chin. During a commercial, the detective regally pushed himself off the cushions and in an instant was on the doctor. His strong but lanky legs straddled John, diving in for a heated kiss.

The sudden “attack” wasn’t surprising, for Sherlock had done this plenty of times whenever he deduced John was far too deep in broken thoughts, and John accepted the intimacy in stride. Expected or not, it only took three seconds for Sherlock’s complete attention to melt all sensible thoughts from John.

Despite all the times they had kissed and Sherlock had rendered him a senseless mess, John’s mind still tried to send off warning bells. The warnings weren’t coherent, just flashes of emotions that shook John from the inside, but they weren’t loud enough to keep him from moaning and arching into the touch.

Like all the times before, Sherlock was encouraged by the sounds his partner made and he pressed into John with more fervor. His kisses because like live bites and his muscles tightened around John passionately tease at the blood that was quickly rushing to his groin. 

Then, like all the previous times, when it was clear that John was pliant and willing, Sherlock took the attention away from John’s lips to suck seductively down his neck. This was about the time that Sherlock would pull away, leaving John aching without release, cautious that this was the part of their interactions that John had stopped that first time. 

John couldn’t allow to be left alone without the proper release now. Desperate, John gripped onto Sherlock’s hips, not to take control but to encourage the moment to continue. Though he instinctively knew things would eventually go bad, his desires were at a point of urgency that could no longer go unattended.

“Sherlock,” he groaned breathlessly in need as the man on top of him gyrated against him with brilliant rhythm. 

Hearing his name seemed to provide the incentive that Sherlock needed because, with a promising bite a lustful thrust, he was on his feet, pulling John up with him. The moment John was standing, lips attached themselves to him again as a lead body crowded into his space and maneuvered him backward into his bedroom. “You’re sure about this.”

It was said like one of his observations, but John took it for the question that it was meant to be. “Yes,” he moaned as his back hit the doorframe of the bedroom. 

There must have been something in his expression or the ways he braced himself, for Sherlock paused momentarily to study John with his defective focus. Whatever he saw led him to declare in his softened tone, “John, you can trust me.”

Trust him to be gentle. Trust him to know exactly what needed to be done and when it needed to be done. Trust him to fix him.

But John wasn’t sure if he could trust Sherlock in those matters. Trust ran both ways, and John knew for a fact that Sherlock didn’t trust him. 

Still, as much as Sherlock thought that this was about trust, or that trust needed to be involved in this, it wasn’t. This was about physical intimacy, about providing an extra piece to their new way of life as a means to bridge the tension that had come between them. So, he simply kissed the man that had him against the door, locking him in place with prominent hips.

Sherlock took the action for affirmation, gripped John’s sides with an almost bruising force and quickly moved them to the bed. Eyes closed, lost in the overwhelming presence of Sherlock, John allowed himself to be manhandled onto his back. He let his senses rule him, wanting nothing but what what Sherlock felt the need to do. 

John was laid out perfectly for what Sherlock planned to do to him. The genius man above him peppered him with insistent kisses, generously applying small, pleasureable bites and greedy swipes of his tongue, distracting John of the fact that his clothes were being meticulously taken off.

He wasn’t aware of such a fact until he was completely naked beneath his flat mate, along with the realization that Sherlock himself was still very much clothed. Following his instincts, the ones that always made him want to give more than he received, he took a hold of Sherlock’s dress shirt, but Sherlock nipped at John’s bottom lip and took his hands in his own to place them above John’s head. “It’s okay,” he whispered into the doctor’s mouth, his words vibrating within his throat. “Let me do this for you.”

John wanted to argue. It felt wrong to just do nothing during something like this. Sherlock didn’t give him that chance. He held his hands in place with a strong hold at his linked wrists. Generally, being held down wouldn’t be an issue since John was stronger, but his muscles were too laced to do much fighting. 

Completely in control, Sherlock took advantage of the needy body under him, playing him as dedicatedly as he would his violin to bring about groans, moans, and other whimpering sounds. 

Gentle teeth had found themselves at John’s left nipple, teasing it to hardness before moving on to the right. His free hand caressed his inner thigh, giving attention to every little reaction except for the one that ached the most. 

“Sher...Sherlock,” John caught the man’s name in his throat. He knew it sounded like he was begging, that he was begging, but he couldn’t stop himself from doing so. 

Lips smirked against his skin, which should have been annoying, but was, in this moment, decidedly seductive. “Yes?” The cool breath against his licked, perked nipple sent shivers throughout his entire body. “What is it you want from me?” Unable to form the words, all John could to answer was to thrust his hips upwards in an attempt to find friction.

He was hard and leaking, straining for more and weeping at the sensations that wracked the rest of his body. It suddenly occurred to John just how long he had gone without this, without the intimate presence of another, of being brought to such levels of heightened pleasure. 

And those pleasures were at their extremes as calloused fingers moved wonderfully to the shaft of his erection. Though they were light touches, after all the sensations that Sherlock had engendered, it was enough. John moved along with the talented, beautiful fingers that teased him with lustful strokes. When Sherlock’s mouth left his chest, John opened his eyes to watch the man that held so much sway over him. 

Brilliant, indescribable eyes peered at him and it was like there was a sun beaming down. The moment their gaze met, one lit in wonder and the other blown wide in arousal, the touches became more demanding, wrapping around his length in urgency and passion. 

“Sh...Sher…” John mumbled, thrusting himself into Sherlock’s hand.

“Shh John,” the other cooed, reaching his lips to nibble at John’s earlobe, putting more pressure on his wrists that were still captured above his head. 

Nonsensical sounds were made in response, which only led to further smirking.

“It’s alright John. Just let go.” So he did. 

Breathlessly, he crashed into the mattress and pillow, semen coating his stomach and Sherlock’s hand. 

All at once, the thrumming energy that had flowed through his blood, came to a calming stop. His body was putty, lacking the ability to move, but more than willing to let Sherlock mold him however he wanted. He closed his eyes just briefly, drained from the attention, but when he reopened them Sherlock had managed to escape. Before he had the chance to fully begin to lament over being used and left behind, Sherlock then returned with freshly washed hands and a damp rag, preparing to clean the mess from John. 

“From your spent, satisfied state, I’d say that was a success,” Sherlock grinned victoriously. 

“Hmm,” John murmured.

“So, then am I to assume that you will allow for this to happen again?” John wasn’t sure why was bothering to ask when the man already knew the question. It wasn’t like Sherlock to ask something he already knew, unless the question was being used to mock one’s intelligence. 

“Of course,” John replied anyways. Because as much as he still didn’t fully believe that this would actually fix him, it was definitely a start.


End file.
